Magical Mystery Ride
by ravenromance27
Summary: An introspective look at the members of the Karasuno Volleyball Club as they discover each other and battle it out in the midst of their quest towards Nationals. Alternating perspective from characters within the series.


**Authors Note:** Standard disclaimer and whatnot. _**Haikyuu!**_ is the proud creation of Furudate Haruichi- Sensei. I don't own any of his adorable characters.

Now this story is first and foremost, a reaction to the first episode of _**Haikyuu!**_ I watched the anime on a whim because I liked sports anime ever since I discovered _**'Hikaru-no-GO'**_, another infinitely interesting piece. But this story was inspired in part by the incredible duo from Nishiura Baseball Team. If you're lost and don't know what the heck I'm talking about, let me explain. I am referring to the battery composed of Abe Takaya and Mihara Ren from 'Big Windup' (Ookiku Furikabutte).

They have this codependency that's just so sweet and poignant it's enough to turn any hetero fangirl into a yaoi one. Believe it. When I watched Kageyama and Hinata's interaction and further read about them in the manga, I saw it—that spark that makes partnerships so unique and effective. They have that delicate dance between tension and friendship and trust that just makes me want to go "_kyaaa!_!"

Sorry. Silly scribe moment. I will update this with every episode that comes out. Alternating viewpoint. Maybe even from the others. Hope it will give a good fix for those looking for a _**Haikyuu! **_story.

* * *

**A Fool in the King's Court**

_What would I do without your smart mouth_

_Drawing me in, and you kicking me out_

_Got my head spinning, no kidding, I can't pin you down…_

_And I'm so dizzy, don't know what hit me, but I'll be alright_

_John Legend - All Of Me_

* * *

It was the conviction in him that made stop and look long enough to see. It was literally pouring out of him—undiluted and unapologetic like a beacon—he makes no excuses, and gives none other than the belief that he had the right to stand in the court that he desires. In a world that has grown inured and jaded with cynicism—he speaks of winning when he has never known the ravages of battle.

I wanted to punch him with the same hand that wanted to clutch him close and ask how he can stare right back at me without fear after seeing every other team cringe at the mere mention of my school's name. I knew he couldn't have missed the whispers that followed us when we walked in. I'm sure as hell sure he also heard that annoying sobriquet they so thoughtlessly attached to my name.

**King of the court.**

I was no king…merely a jester for the fools that refuse to see the battle as I do. I am an impotent monarch if ever I was one—surrounded by incompetent slackers who are quite content with mediocrity—settling for the banal because it's there…because it's easier to rely on a reputation built on the backs of someone else's hard work and bloodshed.

**King of the court. **

I am hardly that. What am I in their eyes is an unforgiving, demanding tyrant. An uncompromising miser who sees victory and strength and little else. A dictator that demands perfection at all times. But why shouldn't I demand anything? _Fools…_

But him—he was unforgivably naïve and happy with it. _And I hated him for it_. I wanted to hate him so badly for it. Hated that he had the fire but not the support. The skills and the drive and all he has are those trashy hangers-on with him who had no concept of what they were even doing in court. Hell, he didn't have a decent team with him—he was an amateur with a bunch of clueless idiots who couldn't even figure out the basic of basics. They're like the breathing illustrations for a 'Dummies Guide to how to lose in Volleyball'.

And there he goes—trying still, trying his heart out and still he fails. I watched him display those jumping skills of his, over and over again without fail and without reward. He couldn't win against a team—a real team. I wait for him to give up but he doesn't. He doesn't even entertain the notion of pain or disadvantage or losing. Those things seemingly never even entered his mindset. Worse of all, he said those infernal burning words with such faith that it was all I could do not to walk to his side of the court and berate him like a loon.

"_**We haven't lost yet."**_

_Why?_ _Why couldn't those that fought on my side think that way? Why didn't they hunger for victory the way that foolish amateur did?_ Why couldn't they bear his conviction and desire—his belief that victory is within his grasp as long as he doesn't stop fighting for it with every toss, every spike, every ball that comes his way? Why does he keep chasing after the ball, chasing after the win against an opponent he could never ever defeat?

And why for the love of the gods do I burn with the certainty that had he been with anyone with skills he could do the impossible? I knew—with utter conviction—I knew that he couldn't defeat me—not now, not as he is—but why do I trust that he could if he had the means? Why do I have more faith in this nameless amateur from a nameless school more than the ones standing right next to me on the same side of the net?

When that game winning strike sounded in my ear, I couldn't believe it. At that moment nothing for me existed except for him—not the members of the team that was attempting to speak to me, not the coach asking me what was wrong, certainly not the officials asking me to step in line to complete the post-game courtesies. In my fury I broke a personal rule—I got emotionally involved with something outside game—I reacted to someone not as an opponent but as someone whose talent and skills frustrated me.

"_**What were you doing for the last three years?"**_

The fury in my voice was evident to everyone close enough to hear. I knew that my outburst surprised my team who believed wholeheartedly that ice-water flowed in my veins but at that moment, I didn't care. I didn't care for the angry tirade of his companions who were eager and furious in their defense of him-their words meant little to me now. I didn't care that I was delaying the games for the next set, I didn't care much except to make those impassioned eyes look at me and tell me what I needed to know. To tell me that I was right and that he was just a fool who had no right to stand in the same court as I did. Or to tell me that I was wrong and that he didn't really care whatever the hell I had to say.

What it was that I truly expected to hear—I didn't really know myself—but I wanted something from him. Something—some acknowledgement for the hunger and frustration that he created in my core. I wanted him to give me answers because somehow this nameless naïve amateur understood that yearning inside of me that I have never given voice to.

That day I was forced to walk away before he could give me an answer, persuaded to fall in line and mouth off the words that formally ended our only possible encounter. I walked back into my bench and proceeded to put him out of my mind.

Hours passed and I walked out of the gym with my teammates. Their silence surrounded me and like every single time outside the confines of the court—they have no words for me and I have none for them. I trailed behind them, lost as always in quiet contemplation of the games recently concluded when I heard the faint gasp of breath and hurried footsteps behind me.

I turned to look and there he was. That enigmatic mongrel of a player that disturbed my tranquility more than anyone else ever had. He stared at me with pain filled, red rimmed eyes burning with righteous determination before hiding beneath the curtain of unruly bangs.

**_"If you're the king that rules the court—"_**

His voice, when he spoke shook with frustration and pain and loss. But his back wasn't bowed in defeat; his stance wasn't shaken with fear. He stood up those steps and spoke to me, raising his head proudly even as tears flowed heedlessly down his ruddy cheeks, his big cinnamon eyes lit once more with fiery resolve as he placed a hand on his chest.

**_"—I'll have to defeat you and I'll be the last one standing!"_**

I didn't know what compelled me to open my lips and speak. I normally wouldn't have bothered. He wasn't the first opponent to seek me out to make an impassioned declaration to defeat me and I sure as hell know he wouldn't be the last. Over the last few years, not a few opponents and some teammates have stated words of challenge towards me.

Yet something about his honest grief and his unapologetic stance made something inside of me _yield_—years of gritty determination and fortitude gave way to honesty and candidness I'm pretty sure would've knocked my entire team off their feet and induce coma along the way.

I stared at his heaving, sobbing, blubbering form and found words flowing easily past lips so used to demands and insults. I didn't question the level tone I used nor the lack of my usual irritated growl. Somehow I knew that whatever it is that I say to him—it would mean something. It would matter.

**_"The last one standing are the victors. Only the strongest. If you want to be the last one standing, become strong."_**

I met his gaze, allowed those tear-bright eyes to stare down at mine without any trepidation. He didn't say anything else to me. And I didn't have any more words to say to him. For a span of a moment-unknowing how long it actually lasted-all that existed was him and me. The words I spoke hung between us like heavy chains and yet, we knew it would bind us forever. Without another word, I turned to go, determined to put him out of my mind, resolved to put the entire thing behind me, even as a nagging voice inside of me resounded with the certainty that no matter what happens—I will never forget that boy.

I should've listened to that voice. I should've realized fate wasn't done with us quite yet. Because it hadn't been less than a year when I heard that same earnest voice echo inside the gym court I was practicing in and I turned to see those self-same cinnamon eyes staring at me incredulously as a ball carelessly tossed by my hand hits me and only one phrase echoed loudly inside my disconcerted mind:

_**This is gonna be fucking troublesome.**_


End file.
